Tag Archives: adoration

Mother gave out her orders for dad to go pick up some of her special bread for dinner. The wide white baguette was the only thing she claimed to be able to eat:

“My stomach is allergic to that other peasant crap!” She, of course, was referring to the bricks of wheat bread that dad and I could devour kilos at a time, given enough garlic and salt. “And why don’t you take the small one with you? Keep her from getting under my feet?”

Dad found me reading inside Marinka’s closet, where I had built myself a beanbag-like chair out of a pile of dirty laundry. This was the only place in our two bedroom apartment where the constant stream of kitchen noises sounded reasonably muffled.

“Hey, monkey!” dad cracked open one of the doors. “Wanna join Papka on a smoking break?”

Before I removed my ear plugs I’d made from cotton balls, I studied the handsome man’s face. He — was my father. Floating above me, nearly at the ceiling, as it seemed, he reminded me of those romantic leads in the old, black-and-white Soviet films: usually some Labor Hero or the best and the brightest of the Party for whom love always arrived after success, and always in a form of the least likely — somewhat homely and nerdy — girl. Dad’s eyes were radiating with tanned wrinkles. His lips were resisting the type of a grin that happened whenever he tried his damn hardest not to act amused at my expense.

“A smoking break? Well. Yeah, sure.” I shrugged one of my shoulders, slipped the index fingers in between the pages of The Master and Margarita, and placed the book face down. (All the reading for our Literature Class I had completed back during my summer at the Pioneer Camp. Since then, I’d been reading everything I could find in my parents’ library, in alphabetical order. Considering I was still making my way through “B’s”, I hadn’t gotten too far. But it took no more than a few chapters to know that this novel could get me into serious trouble.)

Dad stepped back to give me enough room to slip out of my office, and after I wrangled myself out of Marinka’s dirty bathrobe, he examined me head to toe and said: “The consensus is: You might need a jacket.”

“Yeah? Should I wear rain boots, too?”

With one of his forearms, dad moved the tulle curtains and looked out of the window. “Ooh. Yeah,” he nodded. “You’re right. Looks like it might rain.”

I knew that. Lying down on the floor, on my stomach, I was already fishing for the matching rain boot under our bunk bed. In secret, I was hoping that my shoe, of boringly dull rubber, had been lost forever and that I would get to wear Marinka’s pair: They were all shiny, with bright flowers; almost brand new and made in the very exotic country of China. But the dark thing in the furthest corner turned out to be my missing rain boot. That’s alright, I thought. I will inherit the Chinese pair in no time!

“Are we gonna bring an umbrella, too?”

“Nah,” dad looked out of the window again. “We aren’t the type to melt, are we?!”

Shaking the last of the dust bunnies from my abandoned rain boot, I felt a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. Dad chose me! He could’ve gone alone — but he chose my company! The days of his endless travels were long gone. The furthest he would depart these days would be to work on blown over phone lines that connected his Army Unit to what I assumed to be the Kremlin. Still, every evening, the man looked for an excuse to stay out of the house. Smoking was one of them.

As I began to mold into a serious runner at school and refused to wear dresses (besides my mandatory school uniform), dad and I began venturing out on walks. Perhaps it was because my funny predisposition tickled my old man. Being outnumbered had to be an already rough reality long before all three women of our household began menstruating on the same schedule. So, I imagine it was a bit of a relief to discover that at least his youngest offspring could wish for no better occupation than to climb trees, outrun boys; bang nails into drywalls, go fishing or take endless walks through the town. And to make our likeness even more daunting, I wasn’t one to talk much either.

Naturally, I didn’t go questioning as to where the two of us were now heading. Not until we passed the gates of the town’s police station, already shut for the day — its only lightbulb above the main doorway reflecting in the wet asphalt like the second moon — that I asked:

“How come we’re in a hurry?”

Dad’s gait, always evenly paced as if he were marching in the Red Square parade, felt rushed. Normally, he was more aware of the patter of my feet, echoing his own footsteps. But that day, he was moving faster than I expected from our typical “smoking break”. In parts, I’d had to jog a little to keep up.

The man took the cigarette out of his mouth, blew the smoke over this left shoulder, away from me, and said: “Sorry, comrade! We’re picking up your mother’s bread.”

“Well. That’s understood,” I said, then zipped up my windbreaker and got ready to continue jogging, as if on a mission this time. This business of mother’s needs was to be taken seriously. Even I had learned that, by then.

“Understood?” dad smiled. In my response, I had given myself the masculine gender.

“Under-stood,” I nodded, then jogged slightly ahead of him to get a better look at his face. The same grin of his trying hard not to embarrass me was brewing on his lips.

She was a dainty lil’ thing, which is not even a preferable beauty requirement for me. But some girls do wear it well.

First of all: There was the pixie haircut. It was the whole Jean Seberg in Breathless thing. But then again, she seemed a bit less vulnerable, less breakable; less controversial. Despite her petite physique, she seemed strong, as someone with a wise and compassionate heart. So maybe, she was more of an Audrey Hepburn type: Like grace, and classic beauty: Timeless!

A pair of large dark eyes were alert and clear. There are some girls whose smarts are obvious in the perpetual little smirk that lingers in the corners of their eyelids. I like those girls: The Kat Dennings types. But truth be told, I’ve always found them a bit intimidating. I can’t really keep up with their references; and no matter how much I pride myself in having street smarts, my self-assurance always fades in their company. They speak of rock ‘n’ roll — they are rock ‘n’ roll! — and they are ever so cool!

Often, they seem to really dig sports, but not in that other way that pretty college girls do: hanging out at sports bars for the sake of male attention. And somehow, they are always up on the latest politics and gossip alike. So smart! So cool!

But this one — was a bird of a different color. She was obviously quick and judging by the breathlessness of her companions that evening — she was utterly adored. And as I watched her from the higher seats of the auditorium, I realized she made others feel important. That — was her charm: her timeless grace. She listened, with nothing but sincerity lingering in the corners of her eyelids, and that tiny compassionate smile never fading from her lips.

The lips. Alas, the lips: She wore a layer of pink gloss on hers. There were days once upon a time when I had tried to surrender to the call of my own feminine maintenance. In the history of my make-up routines, I used to utilize it primarily as a shield. I would wear layers of make-up in college, after nagging my BFF for enough tutorials. And in my early years in Hollyweird, make-up came with the job description of a cocktail-girl-slash-hostess-slash-actress-waiting-for-her-discovery. Those were exactly the days when I would try to apply the sticky substance to my lips. Somehow though, it never really worked out for me: I would be constantly spitting out my hair that would stick to my lips — then all over my face — and smear my paint job. (Utterly annoying and very ungraceful!) And then, I would have to reapply, which always rung untrue to my nature; too high maintenance.

Somehow though, this girl’s lips appeared perfectly made-up from the beginning of the event to the end. I haven’t even seen her fussing with it once, as pretty college girls do, for the sake of male attention. (I personally believe that unless you’re whipping out a ChapStick, a chick’s make-up routine should be kept for the secrecy of the ladies’ room. But then again: My high maintenance and I aren’t too close. So, what the fuck do I know?)

Her faded golden necklace was vintage. So were her beige Mary Janes. And so was the midnight blue mini-dress with tiny white polka dots. The length of it must’ve been amended from its original rockabilly swing style. And the wide beige belt with a buckle that matched her necklace perfectly added to all the carefully selected details.

All this to say: I was smitten. Well, mesmerized, for sure. My own large dark eyes and fluffy haircuts have often earned me others’ comparisons of me to the classic beauties of old cinema. But my style was never so well thought-out.

To the contrary, as my years in Hollyweird accumulated, I seemed to have settled for the least amount of maintenance. I don’t fuss. I don’t make much use of my iron. And I am often in a habit of telling my awaiting comrades and lovers:

“I’ll be ready — in ten!”

There have been times when my routine takes less time than those of my companions. And a few have commented on it:

“Quick to undress, eh?”

But in a presence of classic beauty — I never fail to be inspired.

“Why can’t I be more like her?” I used to wonder, in my early days in Hollyweird. I had arrived here from New York and was already well on the way to minimizing my high maintenance habits. But then there was the cocktail-girl-slash-hostess-slash-actress-waiting-for-her-discovery era, and I would prolong the return of the unfussy tomboy I used to be before my adolescence burdened me with its presumptions of womanhood.

These days, I don’t even wonder any more. I admire, instead, with nothing but sincerity lingering in the corners of my eyelids. I admire other women — the choices they make in the maintenance of their womanhood; and I never miss an opportunity to grant them a compliment.

But to each — her own, I think; and I embrace the short maintenance routine that I have figured out for myself, with time. Because beauty and grace is always timeless; and mine — is actually on time.

“Rrra-Rrra!” the younger one always winds up his tongue; and he gleams while shaking the long hair out of his squinting dark eyes. “RRA-RRA – BABY!”

I chuckle: How I adore those hearts!

This morning, I listen to the message, and I slide open the windows. It’s been feeling like autumn, lately. But how exactly — I just can’t pinpoint yet.

Perhaps, there is a vague aroma of dying leaves, much more aggressive on the other coast, where my older brother now dwells. He is making things happen over there, moving at twice the speed than we do, in this paralyzed city. And his energy — his hunger, his passion, his perpetual up-for-it-ness — is contagious, even if only captured on my voicemail, this morning.

All throughout the year, he is in the habit of wearing long, tattered scarves, a couple at a time. A few — seem to be made out of his own canvases. Others are thicker: I imagine they’ve been crocheted by the hands of lovely girls who tend to adore him, with their open, yet calmer hearts. And when I meet him, in the middle of autumn, on the other coast, I study the flushed tip of his nose peaking out of the bundle of those endless scarves — which he is in the habit of wearing, all throughout the year, a couple at a time.

“Ra-Ra!” he’d say, while untangling himself.

And I would chuckle: How I adore that heart!

It’s not going to rain here, not for another month. So, my own scarves, long and tattered, can remain stored for just a bit longer.

Still, I can already smell the oncoming change. It sits at the bottom of a clouded layer that now takes longer to burn off in the mornings. At night, I’ve started using thicker blankets. And when I leave my day job, these days, the sun is already on its way out. I walk home, alone in this paralyzed city, and I bundle up in my oversized sweaters whose sleeves remind me of the long arms of my brothers. I bury my face in the generous, knit, tattered collars, and I chuckle.

My brothers: They stand over a foot taller than me. My baby-talls! My two gorgeous, loyal creatures from two foreign lands with convoluted histories of political detours, similar to my own Motha’land’s. We each belong to the people prone to chaos, to revolutions and idealism. So, our comfort level — is flexible.

Moving — or moving on — comes easier for us. Neither one has settled yet (and we won’t settle for less than the entire world!); and we tend to keep our luggages readily available at the front of our closets.

My younger brother tends to get easily distracted. On every adventure, every journey, he loses himself completely, disappearing for months at a time, on the other coast. But every time he resurfaces, his energy, his passion — his perpetual up-for-it-ness — is absolutely contagious.

He takes weeks to return my messages. And when he does:

“RRA-RRA – BABY!” he winds up his tongue, and I can hear his gleaming while shaking the long hair out of his squinting dark eyes.

And I chuckle, instantaneously forgiving him for disappearing on the other coast: How I adore that heart!

This morning, I slide open the windows: It’s been feeling like autumn, lately. I pull the luggage out of the front of my closet and I begin packing.

“How ’bout an adventure?” I think. “Why not?”

And immediately, I am flooded with a certain feeling of lightness and peace. But what it is exactly — I just can’t pinpoint yet. Where I am going — I do not know. It’s always been easy to move. But lately, it’s become easier — to move on.

Fuck it, I think, and I go digging out my long, tattered scarves. A couple of them seem to be made out of my brother’s canvases. I don’t remember where I got them though; and I rarely wear them. So, I pack those away again. The others, thicker and multicolored, crocheted by lovely girls with open, calmer hearts — those I start trying on, as if with their length, I can measure the mileage to my beloved hearts. One at a time, I wrap them around my neck, bury my face and I chuckle: In my life, I have adored so many hearts! And so many hearts — adore me.

It’s not going to rain here, not for another month. So, maybe, today, I’ll just drive up north: Somewhere else to tangle myself up — up to my flushed nose — and to think of my brothers; to think of all the other hearts, dwelling on the other coast.

In less than an hour, my luggage is packed. I’m ready to go; and immediately, I am flooded with a certain feeling of lightness and peace. Is it gratitude? My adoration for other hearts?

I listen to my brother’s message again:

“Hey, Ra-Ra!” (he left it, months ago, for the nth time.) “Don’t you think it’s kinda ironic that after six years, your outgoing message hasn’t changed?”

Because for the last six years, I’ve lived vicariously through my brothers’ energies: their adventures, passions — their perpetual up-for-it-ness — on the other coast. My own travels, however, have been carefully planned.

I reach for my phone and prerecord another message. I think I may use it, in my seventh year:

Some people — men and women alike — may not enjoy cooking (although most share a general liking of sex). Whenever I’ve met those non-cooking types (and I used to be one of them), their only fault turns out to be quite innocent: They just haven’t been able to discover any pleasure in the kitchen, yet. My own earlier disliking of cooking had something to do with a lack of time and sparsity of ingredients. But once I’ve crossed the threshold into my fuller-fledged womanhood and more comfortable prosperity, I soon discovered: I loved cooking.

“But, of course, I cook!” I tell any man who asks; and I say so proudly while I notice a whole new category of interest sparking up in that man. He wants it. I can tell.

But there isn’t really much art to cooking: All you need is esteem and common sense. (Kind of like in sex.) Esteem is a consequence of experience and skills. The better the esteem — the better cook. The better the lover.

With baking, however: It’s a different ball game. The one thing that a baker absolutely must accept is a very precise list of ingredients and measurements; tools, temperatures, timing. A baker must enjoy following instructions, which much be why none of the men I’ve known liked baking. Sure, I’ve dated many men who cooked. Although I’ve never slept with a professional chef, I’ve shared a bed — often after sharing a meal — with a few men who were very skilled at cooking.

Interestingly, the better skilled cooks, in my personal statistic, somehow turned out to be better equipped lovers. It may be a pure coincidence, of course, but I would imagine that what made them good in bed and in the kitchen was their willingness to improvise.

There are recipes in cooking, but most of us, cooks, use them as a mere source of inspiration. Personally, all I need to know is the flavor profile and the temperature; and then, I take it from there, on my own — thank you very much. And soon enough, I am able to get lost in it: to transcend while most the time thinking of the person for whom that meal is being made. And that is exactly where I get off: Cooking requires a generosity of the soul. Combined with a set of skills, it is meant for the benefit of the other participant. Kind of like sex: GOOD SEX, that is.

And just like in the bedroom, I prefer to establish a certain amount of control in my kitchen. I am an extremely territorial cook: I keep my working space immaculately clean while often setting the mood with the voices of my favorite soulful songbirds and wearing the minimal amount of required clothing. During a meal, however, I prefer to lose that control and to get my hands dirty. And I do prefer for the other person to get turned on by the tastes and the textures of the meal so much, that he unleashes the reins of his vanity — and starts eating with his hands and licking his fingers.

Here, I would dare to compare cooking to foreplay: As any good cook and lover, I bounce between the general recipe for it and, again, improvisation. Which would then make the actual meal — sex itself. When in the midst of it, there is no more room or time for brushing up on the ingredients. Because after all of that preparation, it is time to get down and dirty — and to make a meal of it. Which is why I always prefer the company of very hungry men.

Now, baking, as I’ve mentioned, is a whole different ball game. It’s a ballpark with its own rules. Personally, I prefer an absence of all balls while I juggle in front of my stove. On occasion, I have permitted a man to observe me while I improvise a meal, for his benefit. But as a baker — I do my thing in silence and entirely alone.

I still think of the other person, of course; but the more I like a man — the more complex my baking recipe will be. Because what I want — is to impress him, to titillate him with luxury at the end of a successful meal; to take him over the edge just when he is ready to lean back and relax.

If I ever bake for a man, I have already interviewed him on his favorite sweets. I’ve done my research. I have collected the best of the ingredients which often requires traveling to specialty stores and the purchase of a specific pan from Sur La Table. Sometimes, the process of baking takes several days: I let each part sit, settle, cool down; absorb the ganache. Then, I compile the next layer, and I allow it to serve its time as well; to age a little. And I find that most cakes taste slightly better on the second day after their completion. But then, I always perform the final touches just a few hours before presentation.

And it turns me on to harbor the secret of it while I observe my man consuming a meal and often singing me praises:

“You have NO idea what’s coming at the end of this, do you?” I think to myself — proudly — I notice a whole new level of interest, of adoration that arises in my heart for the very hungry man across my table.

Most bakers will confess that they don’t improvise. It is a game of precision. You must be willing to surrender to the rules and avoid listening to any dictation by your ego.

But the more you grow as baker, the more room you find for improvement. TRUE: That room is very modest. There is nothing you can do to fix a collapsed souffle or to a mousse cake that refuses to set in. There is nothing to do — but to start from scratch.But you can thicken the icing to fix a lopsided cake. Or you can add a caramel to a cheesecake to distract your guest from a less-than-perfect crust.

And so it is in love making — TRULY GREAT LOVE MAKING: You must know what you’re doing. Not only have you interviewed your partner about his tastes and preferences, by now, you have most likely practiced a few times. You’ve learned how to reach your lover’s pleasure. You’ve done: The research!And that very expertise is what separates love making from sex: It takes time and practice. It takes surrender — and maybe just a little room for improvisation.

No matter how good of baker you are, you will most likely always botch up the very first crepe, right? And no matter how great of a lover you are, the very first time with a partner, you’ll end up having sex — NOT making love. But if you’re willing to invest the time, to do the research; to learn and to be patient; to accept the recipes to your lover’s orgasms and to know when and how to throw in the last improvisation — however modest — you will discover this:

What makes a great lover — and a great baker — is leading with your heart.

Beautiful beach. Beautiful bodies. Very beautiful boys, tall and lean — lovely, really. And those gorgeous behinds of the girls — who are also beautiful — passing along the tide.

It’s lovely, really, to not be so blind to life.

I’ve only got an hour here — a small break I’ve permitted myself smack in the middle of my day. I have chosen this life of malleable schedule; and it demands much more responsibility than showing up at one place, every day, at eight. But then again, that other life seems so brutal. That other life of others: I’ve tried it. I can do better.

An hour. That’s all I’ve got. I’ve imposed a halt onto my day and taken a detour to the beach. I’m going to make up for it later, I think; and I wish I could be more romantic about it: more romantic than crawling out of my skin with my chronic impatience at time. Just how much longer is it going to take until I achieve the life that’s unlike the life others? A life of my own: How long does it take to mold?

In this part of the beach, mostly populated by locals, it is always so quiet — and so beautiful. It’s lovely, really. But I do wish I could be more romantic about it: I wish I would catch myself thinking about the opposite shore where I just happened to be born several decades ago — and that must be why I keep coming by here. To recharge. To reconnect. To think of home, as others often do — in their own life of others. But I have left that shore — that’s the truth — on purpose, several decades ago. It wasn’t working. I tried it. I could do better.

Still, I raise myself up onto my elbows and squint at the line where the dark blue of the water meets the dusty white of the sky: Nope. I can’t really see home from here. Home — is just gonna have to be wherever I am.

But still: It is so lovely, really. And it’s lovely — to not be so blind to life.

I watch a threesome of youth things fling a frisbee to each other, near the tide. One of the boys is stocky. He’s the funny type. I can tell by the way he makes the other two double over with laughter, even though I can never hear the ending to his jokes. The other boy is tall and lean. He’s lovely, really. Whenever he leaps to catch that thing in midair, he reminds me of a dog. I wish could be more romantic about it. I wish I could catch myself thinking about a lovely boy of my near past. But that’s all done now. The thinking, the rethinking — the endless groveling for reasons, clarifications; hastily gathered apologies, crumbs of hope for a reunion, or for some sort redemption, at least — that’s all done now.

I watch the boy launch the frisbee with a mere bend and release of his wrist. Vaguely, I begin recalling all the ones I have treated with kindness, in my life. Thankfully, the ones that got the lesser of me I can count on only two fingers. Because less than — wasn’t really working. I tried it though. I can do better.

And then, there is the girl of the threesome. I think she is very young, hiding her torso underneath a long-sleeved surfing top. She giggles too, a lot and often completely unprovoked. But it’s the ruffle that circumvents her hips along the bikini bottom that tells me she’s still got so much life ahead of her, and way too much youth.

Out of the three, she is the least equipped for the game. When she dashes to catch a throw, she never takes off on time and she always misses. And when the frisbee lands, she runs to it, while laughing; bends over to pick it up, then starts slapping it against the bottom of her right butt cheek, shaking off the sand and making the rest of her body vibrate with suggestion. I think I can overhear her apologies:

“Sorry,” she giggles, vibrating with laughter and the bounce she has started against her gorgeous behind. “I suck!”

But the boys are mesmerized. They don’t mind the stupid game, or that it slows down every time it’s her turn to throw. The tall, lean lovely attempts to coach her a little. But whom is he kidding? She is not interested. Soon enough, she pulls out of the game completely and runs over to the camp of their towels. The beautiful boys do a couple of more throws, but the game is no longer fun. They follow her: Their girl.

Lovely. Really. It’s lovely — to not be so blind to life.

And I’ve only got half an hour left. I shoo away the fragmented thoughts of my next obligations. It’s my life — it’s not the life of others — in which even the breaks have to be disciplined.

I think I doze off. The smell of coconut and perfume brings me back up onto my elbows: Three meters down a family of four is stretching out a cotton sheet, bleached out to perfection. It’s gigantic, waving up in the air like a sail of a boat bringing home a beloved vagabond. The two sons are on one end of it: They are tall, lean — lovely, really. The father is giving out commands from the opposite end, but whom is kidding: He cannot stop from twisting his neck sideways toward a lean and handsome woman, applying sunblock all over her youthful body.

“Hence, the coconut,” I think; and I watch her bend over and slide her thin wrists along each leg, methodically.

This is the life of others. Not my life. And I find myself feeling romantic about it.

The family positions itself onto the white sheet: The handsome woman chooses her place first. The boys immediately flock her, in their unspoken adoration; but they cannot stay down for long. Soon enough, they take off for the tide, with so much youth ahead of them. The father inches over toward his lovely wife: His girl.

This is the life of others. And it’s quite lovely, really.

Okay. Five more minutes. I give myself — five more minutes. They can’t delay me too much. I squint toward the horizon where the two gigantic matters meet, but not where my home is.

My home — is just gonna have to be wherever I am. And wherever I am — is quite lovely, really.

“Why don’t you live in San Francisco?” he asked me yesternight, in awe at my mismatch to this other city, where both of us were currently living.

He had done that before, this measuring me against a city — any city. It used to be Boston. Or anywhere else, really, on the East Coast or by the Black Sea. Anywhere but this other city, where both of us were currently living.

“You’re just so displaced here.” And yes, he had said that before as well: judging me as if I were a story he was thinking of rewriting. “So… Why don’t you?!”

“Because angels still claim to live around HERE,” I brushed him off, back then and yesternight. That too I had done before, always with a deprecating tone, mostly at my own expense.

“It’s like London — on crack, up there! It’s perfect!” he carried on. Youth.

Easily impressionable regardless his worldliness, my wondrous child had just returned from that tilted situation up north, where I tend to run away whenever in dire need to reboot.

My New Yorkers hate on it though:

“San Francisco? Pah-lease! It’s no better than New York! Come home!”

They’re right: There is nothing like that island of my youth. Nothing in the world! There is no stranger nonsense, no meaner beauty; no humanity more brutal or heartbreaking.

But New York can carry on without me: She is a stunner used to runway heels and bouquets catapulted to her feet from great distances — all for the sake of her fleeting love. She wears bras adorned with gemstones; lacy slips for midnight strolls, and nothing but pearls for when she soaks her tired feet in her bathtub.

And yes, we had our fun, She and I. But it’s my life’s religion to never compete with another woman. So: I had let her win. I had let her have it. And I had left her, for this other city where angels still claim to take residence.

I love it when he gets like this: when he stops shielding himself with his strained compassion, or with his habit to disarm me with praise. And only after all that fuss does he step into himself a little better. I keep convincing him that in his wondrous child-like-ness, he is — the most beautiful. But then, how else is he going to learn to be a man unless he tries on his manhood as if it were a collection of dapper hats on a rack in the corner of some vintage shop, somewhere in a city very much like San Francisco?

“They call it ‘The City’ to set an example: THAT’S how one does a city!” he was so excited, my wondrous child. “It’s an etalon, yes?”

Ah, youth.

The last time, I ventured up to “The City,” I had made plans to meet up there with a companion. It had been his idea, way back when. It had to be, for I am too selfish about that tilted situation up north; too selfish to share it. Because I go up there to reboot, to run away: So, it’s my thing, you see? It’s my secret place. My secrets’ place: It’s a place that keeps my secrets, my heartbreaks, my cravings for change — safe.

My intuition was right: Sharing it — would turn out to be a silly idea. For my companion and me, it would be the last stretch of bliss because something would get tilted off its axis soon thereafter — soon after that tilted situation up north — and I would be left dashing in between our memories as something to either regret or to hold onto; to store away into forgetfulness or to let go. (Oh, I wished he hadn’t marked my city.)

But “The City” would keep my new secrets safe.

“It’s just that there is so much money up there!” my wondrous child was bringing me back again. “It’s paved — with money. And everything is so clean, and new, and… well, perfect!”

He had only seen one side of her. To me, She is a handsome, middle-aged heiress. Born into privilege, She had made a choice that only the privileged can make: To fill her life with content, She would dedicate her money to good causes, like compassion and forgiveness and praise. There would still be plenty of comfort and easy access in her life. But the uneasiness would go away every time She would give shelter to the broken hearts that, just like me, would run away to her — to reboot. Some would accept her graces immediately — and stay. Others would get hooked and continue to come back until going away would make no further sense.

But then again: She is such a hippie, that one! Shrouded in earthy smells of mildew and perpetual fog, sweat and essence oils, incense, weed and baker’s yeast, She examines human struggles over tea. And She smiles with an insight that everything would workout any way. And She speaks in a husky voice, with a deprecating tone, mostly at her own expense. Perhaps, it’s because She has keep too many secrets safe, for way too many runaways. For way too many broken hearts.

She is my city. My secret place: She is the city that keeps my secrets — safe.

She is not the city of my youth: She is the city that won’t tell on my mistakes that I had committed back then, in youth.

She is not the city of my youth, but She is willing to give shelter to my future.

I had read that yesterday afternoon, while I waited for LA-LA’s haze to clear. It never did. Because by the time I saw the anticipated clarity of the sky — something we all think we’re entitled to, around here, on the daily basis — the smog had already crawled in, like just another cloud; and it was time to call it a night. Or, it was time to call it an evening, at least.

So, I kept on reading, sprawled out on the floor among my books and collecting random bits of opinions by others that have come — and written — before me; in possible hopes that someone would do it a little better than them, down the road…

But then, someone had once said that there were no closures, in life.

That life — didn’t really work that way. That it consisted of choices — poor choices and those that were slightly better — all conducted in reaction to complete chaos. And then, of course, there would be consequences to those choices as well; and more choices — poor and those that were slightly better — would follow, in reaction to more consequences. And on, and on, and on: Life would carry on, with the better of us learning to commit slightly better choices. And a life with the biggest majority of better choices, I suppose, would make for a life, best-lived.

Pretty bleak, that thing that someone had said once. And it would keep me distraught for the rest of the day. I also knew it would keep me awake, when it would finally be time to call it a night. Or, to call it an evening, at least.

So: By the time it became clear that LA-LA’s haze would never clear yesternight, I left the house for the other side of town, speeding through its residential streets, in search of a catharsis if not an adventure. Occasionally, I would wave at other drivers to let them have their right of way; and most would appear slightly surprised — at my better choice. When the exhausted joggers and the defensive pedestrians waited to be noticed at intersections, I would make eye contact with them and nod. And at some, I would even smile: Like the sporty Jewish mother in her Lulu pants with a pretty but androgynous child inside a baby carriage, on Robertson. Or the tired Mexican man, in dusty clothes, pushing along his cart with leftovers of souring fruit, from his selling island on Venice and Fairfax. Or the two young lovelies, who despite the never cleared LA-LA’s haze, decked themselves out in delicious frocks; enticing me with their tan legs and taut arm exposed, on Abbot Kinney.

I nodded, I smiled. I waved, on occasion. In some odd state of calm resignation, I found myself in adoration — with the never cleared city. That mood, ever so close to surrender, would be my slightly better choice, for the evening (even though I wouldn’t think about it long enough to realize its further consequences).

But then, someone had once said that there were no closures, in life. That life didn’t really work that way. That is was all chaos, random choices with their even more random consequences.

Later, while I waited for a rendezvous with a man so luminous and kind he would make me want to forgive all others that came before him, I lost track of time in a conversation with a friend. A friend that had been a comrade at first, then a lover; until we would make a poor choice to put an end to it; then a slightly better one — to preserve what was left. He had once asked me why I kept in touch with those that had come before him.

“For the stories,” I would respond, immediately surprising myself with the clarity of my choice.

At the time, he would find that choice slightly poor. But yesterday evening, he had to finally see it — as a slightly better one. (Redemption, at last!) Because in my stories, I had become a researcher of consequences. And perhaps my act of defiance had come from the fear of being forgotten — the fear of being inconsequential — but I would choose to remember, him and those that had come before him, and I would keep track of our stories. And also, I would keep track of our choices — however poor or good — in possible hopes that at least one of us would do it a little better, the next time, somewhere down the road.

And no matter the choices, no matter the consequences, all along, I would insist on kindness. That way, in the end, in addition to the intimacy that could soothe a broken heart, there would a new sensation: Something, that for the first time yesternight, to the two of us, would feel like grace — some sort of stubborn choice to be slightly better.

Yes, someone had once said that there were no closures, in life. That life didn’t work that way.

But last night, in the midst of the never cleared LA-LA haze, I dared to differ: Although others indeed could not always grant closures for my own life — or for our mutual stories; I would always make the slightly better choice for forgiveness. And isn’t forgiveness — just another name for closure, anyway?

“Mmm, LOVE ice-cream,” you said with an audible European accent that you weren’t even trying to hide.

Quite the opposite: I bet it has worked to your advantage so far, because you don’t throw yourself against your need to control, to plan, to over think, to predict every moment before it happens — over, and over, and over again. In our company of two, there is already one person who has done that idiotically throughout her youth; and frankly, it’s one person too many.

No, sir! You are one to live in the moment. Honestly.

And you do it with such swagger — never for the sake of exhibitionism or selfish gratification; never for the sake of better opinions or for the sake of having to impress. You dwell in consequences of your easy charm. You watch your life happen and unfold, delivering its opportunities to the the tips of your impeccably polished shoes, like the wet tongue of a tidal wave.

Because where you come from, time moves differently: It never matters more than one’s sensibility, and it definitely does not dare to contradict one’s pursuit of pleasures. And so tonight, you took your time: warming up my curiosity with your easy, manly smiles and just a couple of caresses along my arms with the flat surfaces of your nails. The entire night, your gender training revealed itself in my open doors, extended hands, offered-up shoulders; and your gentle guidance of my high-heeled footstep over ditches and uneven pavements. It is your second nature — to be a gentleman. To be a man — is your first.

“We have a saying about a true — how you say it? — ‘gentleman’,” you told me earlier in the night. “Don’t say much — and enjoy! Yes?”

Yes.

Naturally, you would walk me down to my car after midnight; and with you, I wouldn’t even argue. I wouldn’t feel an urge to defend my independence or flaunt my financial capabilities: It’s not in your — how you say it? — “gentle” nature to undermine my life choices anyway. So, I didn’t have to test or forewarn, with you. That evening, you were my man alright, and it was somehow (finally!) also perfectly alright for me — to be your woman.

So, why — when you began to devour your chocolate ice-cream sandwich, after calling my elevator — did you suddenly resemble a young boy on a summer day spent on a river bank with other sunburnt rascals? As I watched you, a thought flashed:

“ADORE.”

It was more of a memory, really. A memory of a young man — utterly adored — who could wrestle my body or mind into submission with his weight or a single flex of his arm muscles; but when the battle was over, I would walk out of his bedroom to find him armed with a fork and a focus, dissecting a sweet I had made for him a few hours prior:

“Mmm, V. So good!” he would always say with his mouth full and a blue-eyed gaze of someone caught in the midst of his defiant joy. “Have some!”

I never would. Instead: I would adore.

Yes.

Or the sound of another, who could kindly cradle me to sleep; then slip out into the kitchen and lick spoonfuls of honey and peanut butter, chugging them down with cold milk. If I heard his commotions in my sleep, I would smile, always — I would adore! — then, toss myself headfirst into heavier dreams. In the morning, he would be back in his manhood, older than me; and I would wonder if I had dreamt it all up, about someone like our son.

And yet another — tougher, stronger, always in control: If he ever rested in my bed at an hour when the August heat finally gave it a rest, I would bring him platters of chilled watermelon and frozen berries; and while he lapped-up, and feasted, and moaned — the same way he had done with my body — I would rub his heavy head on my lap. And, while he slowly landed: Oh, how I would adore!

Yes…

When the elevator arrived, quicker than it would throughout the day when delayed by other mortals, naturally, you held its door open with one arm, while the other continued to maneuver the quickly melting sandwich around your mouth. You would bite and nibble, lick the corners of your lips. I leaned against the cold rail and chuckled, finding myself in the midst of my easily accessible, habitual adoration. The gaze you shot me was somewhat of a warning:

“Don’t say much — and enjoy! Yes?”

By the time there was nothing left in your hand but a wrapper, we had arrived at my destination. I peeled my behind off the rail and made my way to the doors, anticipating, as always, their opening.

“Where are you going?” you said, with a tease and an effortless control.

Quickly you examined the wrapper in your hand for any last bits, crumpled it up, tossed it into the corner; and before I could manufacture a scold or an excuse, you pressed me back into the rail with the now free hand — while pushing every button on the control panel with the other. I laughed. You smiled that easy, manly smile again, moved in on me, looked-up for cameras — and began to maneuver my lips around your mouth.

At first, I kept my eyes open, looking out for an accidental mortal every time the doors slid quietly in their grooves. But you didn’t bother: You bit and nibbled, licked the corners of your lips — and of mine. You dwelled in consequences of your easy charm, now backing them up with skills. With your eyes on me, you’d push more buttons; and I would laugh — again! — into the collar seams of your impeccably white t-shirt.

And by the third time we arrived to the eighteenth floor, I closed my eyes and pushed your back against the control panel…

That woman was a badass! She strutted around her port city, lithe and decisive in her hips, as if she ran that motherfucker. She was one them proud broads, asking no man for help (other than her father); and it was just her luck that by the time she entered the workforce, her country was on that whole socialist equality shtick. So, the broad held jobs that not many women were interested in; and she flourished, climbing whatever level ladders her Communist Party chapter advertised.

She had been a construction worker and a collective farmer in the country. But by the time I met her, she worked as manager at a fish cannery. Oh, I’ve seen that broad at work! From a rustic desk some moron once thought up to paint the color of a stewing swamp, she gave out her packing orders like some women give out their expectations. She refused to be away from her people, so she moved that swampy thing out onto the factory floor, by the conveyor belt; and considering no Soviet machinery ran low on sound, anyone who needed to talk to her would have to holler out their lungs. Nope, that job was not for the dainty-hearted!

But she did have a little corner getaway upstairs, which is where she would sit me down, underneath a black-and-white shot of one drunken righteous leader after the next. For a while there, these leaders would die on us like flies, so she’d leave their portraits leaning against the wall: What’s the point of worshiping a man if he ain’t planning to last long?

And to keep me entertained, while she strutted on the factory floor — lithe and decisive in her hips — grandmother would equip me with a can of black caviar, a spoon; an old world atlas and a pair of scissors. There I’d spend my days, cutting up the world and acquiring the beginnings of my sick misconception that there was no distant corner I couldn’t cut through; no country I couldn’t slice across.

“Thirsty, little rabbit?” grandmother would reappear at intervals with a glass of foaming sparkling water from the dispenser machine outside; or better yet, with a bottle of Pinocchio soda that tasted like a liquid, lemon-flavored Jolly Rancher.

Of course, I’d be fucking thirsty: Gobbling up that caviar was like drinking sea water or licking the lower back of a tanning Brazilian goddess! (Plus, all that cutting of corners! All that wanderlust!) As if to finish training my stomach to handle anything — in case I ever swallowed anything bitter or toxic (a cowardly lover, for instance) — she would rummage in her pockets and whip out a plastic bag of dried calamari rings: My favorite! Like some children with raspberries, I would top each finger with those rings; then, I continue to trace unfamiliar shores and continents, before cutting them to shreds.

What man could possibly keep up with a broad like that?

The one that knew that taming a descendant of a gypsy was a moot point. The one with balls enough to wait for all the unworthy, drooling endless admirers and ex-lovers to flake away: because none of them could handle that hot number in the first place, bare-handedly. The one with a freedom of his own, addicted to circumvent the globe’s ocean as if each round were a growth ring on a tree trunk of his life. The one who’d seen enough, who’d lost enough to know that a good woman is a lucky find; and even if it chills you down to your bones with paralyzing fear or with the breath of your own mortality, you better give it a goddamn worthy try — to not keep her, to not conquer her — but to have a daily hand at trying to be worthy of her staying.

To that man — my grandfather — this woman was meant to be followed. And so he would: on our every Sunday walk to and from the bazaar, if he happened to return home from his circumventing.

She rarely kept company with other women (but then again, could outdrink every man she’d call “a friend”). So, when walking, she’d always go at it alone, just a few meters ahead; perfectly content with the pace of my little feet, yet with a strut of someone running that motherfucker. Sometimes, I’d look back to find my grandfather’s muscular arms with his fisherman’s tan; and from underneath the tattered hat, with a cig dangling on his lips, he’d smile and wink, as if he had just been caught at a naughty secret.

One day, I chose to walk with him, letting my grandmother lead the way, just a few meters ahead. He lifted me onto his shoulders and told me to hold onto his ears:

“Otherwise, you’ll fly away!”

Every once in a while, he would reach above his head and make a crocodile mouth with his hand; at which point, I would pucker up my lips and let the crocodile devour my sloppy kiss.

And from up there, from the first pair of a man’s capable shoulders, I fell in love — in my youthful lust — with a woman. That day, she strutted just a few meters ahead of us, lithe and decisive in her hips; and with each step, her tight wrap-around dress rode up higher and higher, bunching up at her tailbone and revealing the naked back of her knees. A long, shiny, jet black braid ran down from her top vertebra down to the lower back; and the unbraided tip of it would tap each ass cheek as the hips continued to sway and sway, lithely and decisively, making me slightly dizzy with adoration and bliss.

That day, I knew: It was not a bad deal to follow a woman’s lead. (It was delectable, to the contrary.) But it would take some esteem to be worthy of her staying.

“I want… I want… What is it that I want?” she was squeezing herself into the corner of a vintage, peach-colored chair that couldn’t have been a better throne to her feminine divinity.

She scanned her eyes across the tiny room she’d made her home, as if the answer were somewhere around there: Was it under this tiny bed that she’d surrounded with her art and nature? Or had it fallen out of these mismatching picture frames in various degrees of hanging on and leaning against the walls, as if Frida Kahlo herself had been living, working, pacing here? Had she slipped it, by a forgetful accident, into the unfinished pack of cigarette on her windowsill — the only visible sign of her insomnia and self-destruction, committed in the name of the departed, then turned back into her art; her nature.

“I want to be adored! Because I — I adore!”

This entire evening I had been watching this face — and all that hair — and her gentle grace; and I had been wondering: Was I just like this, in my own youth? Or did I possess more corners: All anxiety about my self-sufficiency and my self-enough-ness?

I’ve arrived here from a harder history, you see. For centuries, it had been unforgiving to our women’s youth and tenderness. Back where I came from, we worshiped our men, but only behind the closed doors of our bedrooms. For the rest of the day, it was a nation filled with female fighters, women-survivors –hustlers — who assumed enemies in every living soul (especially other women, younger and more tender) and who are most content when standing in breadlines.

But by now, I had paid my dues around here. I had suffered and survived the often ungraceful — and sometimes undignified — existence of an immigrant. I had done my share of standing in different lines to get approved as worthy; only to rush myself back to the university library and learn at double the speed, just so that I could be more than that: Just so I could be equal. And I worked. I worked hard, harder than most of my colleagues, American or foreign-born, like me. And only behind the closed doors of my bedroom would I worship my men: For the rest of the day, I was just an Amazon, refusing to let them in on any of my softness.

“I want to be adored,” she repeated, then looked in my direction. Had I seen it laying around her artist’s quarters, by any chance: This adoration that she deserved and was willing to return ten-fold?

“You know?” she asked, then didn’t wait for my answer and said, “You do know.”

My comrades and enemies had so far been unanimous at calling me out on my generosity. In my motha’s fashion, I tend to grant it upfront, as if to back up my name with it. My name: Truth. (Or Faith, depending on which language you speak, or whom you ask around here.)

But even that has altered a little bit with age and cynicism: I am slightly more withdrawn these days; more careful. Because I have yet to raise a child, so I cannot give it all away. And because I myself haven’t finished dreaming yet, so I need my strength. Because these days, if a lover’s departure must be easy at all, it is only if I hadn’t lost myself in him. So, I take my time now. I only meet my people half-way. And I wait: I wait to see if I am — to them — indeed, the adored one, too.

Some souls though! They still know how to draw it out of me: this uncensored generosity, this kindness that hangs in the back of my first name, like the middle initial “V” by which I had been called for most of my life (in all languages). And she — the soul resembling the past child in me and the future one, at the same time — had been like this from the first embrace she’d once decided to grant me. Never once had I caught myself wondering if I was going out too far on the limb, for her sake. Because I knew that her need — was not all consuming; that I wouldn’t lose myself in it (even though, I’d much rather, at times). And in her case, my generosity felt returned ten-fold: The more I gave, the more it replenished me.

So, despite the exhaustion (that this late at night begins to feel like defeat), I had shown up to her home. Other women had come and gone already. I could tell by the variety of the pink shades of lipstick they had left of champagne glasses. A couple were in the midst of departing as soon as I arrived:

“Here! You look like you need a lot of space,” they seemed to be saying while peeling on their coats, and sweater, and ponchos, and shawls.

And I did. I did need (even though I had come here only to give). I immediately dominated her bed. I took over her library, dreaming of the day I could find my own name leaning on it, sideways. And after the last woman departed, I took over the kitchen too: Putting away the disorder, just so in the morning, she would find a clean slate.

She chirped behind me — my darling sparrow! — about whether on not to discard this aging chunk of cheese, or whether or not to dismiss this old lover. Occasionally, I would look back — at that face and all that hair — and wonder: Was I just like this, in my own youth?

But then, suddenly, I blurted out:

“Did the other women bring you food?” My words came out commanding and little bit too loud. She got silent. I landed:

“Oh my! So sorry! I’m so sorry!” Wiping my hands on the towel with force, like all the women in my family do, I gushed: “I sound like my motha. I’m so sorry!”

But her face showed no evidence of having been undermined or offended.

Instead, she rather seemed tickled by this hard softness of mine — an underbelly she must’ve suspected long ago (or why else would she decide to grant me her embrace?). She was in the midst of being adored — by me — and she knew it. She adored it.

And I, suddenly finding myself standing out on a limb, didn’t mind this incomparable generosity of mine: Because it was already replenishing me, ten-fold.